


bang survivor

by ashers_kiss



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (both of which I also encourage), (kind of), (which I encourage), Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Disordered Eating, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Natasha/Bucky if you squint, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam/Steve or Steve/Tony if you squint, Team Bonding, Teambuilding, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, depressive episodes, lady friendships!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4141962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-AOU, Wanda tries to find her way and build connections with this new world.</p><p>It's really not as easy as it looks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic I wanted from the moment I left the cinema. I wanted to see Wanda finding her way and interacting with the team after everything she's been through (which is the reason for the ptsd tag - I think it's probably the best label for how she's feeling here, though I can't claim to be an expert).
> 
> I'm hoping to be able to update this once a week, before I start my new job in July, but -- long story short, RL is being rather sucky and out of my control, so. We'll see. I'm going to _try_ , but I reserve the right to take a break if things fuck up again.
> 
> Some of this was easy to write. Some of it was a pain in the ass. _Wanda_ is not always easy to write, tbh, not after everything. So a huge, _huge_ thanks to [amine-eyes](amine-eyes.tumblr.com), [stripystockings](http://stripystockings.tumblr.com/), [juliannarox](http://juliannarox.tumblr.com/), and [littleblackghost](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackghost) for letting me babble and plot, looking over it, and generally just talking me through it so far. (If I've missed anyone I've annoyed with this, I'm sorry! D:) This wouldn't be anywhere near _half_ as good without them.
> 
> Please note that not everyone mentioned in the tags will appear yet. So if you only want to read for Clint or Tony, uh...you have a chapter or two to wait. 
> 
> There's some heavy shit warned for in the tags. If you feel like that's something you can't read, or need to know more about first, please, take what care you need to, and please feel free to contact me for details.
> 
> Title from [Born To](http://dark-siren.tumblr.com/post/54107942833/asakiyume-throw-her-to-the-earth-through-the) by Jesca Hoop (yes, it is the second time I've used this song, shh).

“Is it always robots?” Wilson asks. He sounds breathless, crystal clear over the comm in Wanda’s ear. “Startin’ to seem like it’s always robots.”

Colonel Rhodes snorts. “I’ve been doing this for five years, and yeah, it’s pretty much always robots.”

Wanda doesn’t say anything, even though her movements are starting to feel a little…rehearsed, as she sends yet another drone into a wall. It does always seem to be robots. A particularly stupid set of AIM’s latest attempts, this time. (Last time, it was Doombots. Wanda really hates Doombots.)

Wilson sighs. “I miss the old days.”

“Hey now, we gave you Nazis and corrupt world security organisations for your first time.” The Widow sounds like she might almost be laughing, warmer in that way she always is with him. “You can’t say we don’t treat you right.”

“Yup, I miss that,” Wilson says, and Colonel Rhodes laughs even as Rogers cuts in with a, “Anyone got eyes on the motherboard for these things?” He doesn’t sound even remotely out of breath, though Wanda has heard the echo of his shield two blocks away.

Wanda doesn’t need to see her to know the Widow is rolling her eyes. “Relax, Cap,” she says, almost a drawl, “I’m on it.”

She doesn’t hear Rogers’ reply, because Pietro is murmuring, “Your right,” in her ear, and there’s a robot trying to crawl its way back to her, reaching for her leg. Wanda slams the heel of her adamantium-reinforced boots (a gift from SHIELD, and she doesn’t think about it further than that, because she _likes_ these boots) down on its head. There’s a crackle, a whir, and the thing slumps, smoking at the neck joint. Wanda can feel her lip curl. “South-west corner is clear,” she reports, kicking the bot lightly. Lighter than she wants to.

“Great, good job,” Rogers says, and Wanda starts walking, because already, she knows that tone. “Y’think you can head up to West 56th? Falcon could use the help.”

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Wilson says, but there’s laughter in his voice, too.

“I’ll be there,” Wanda promises. It’s still an adjustment, picking her way over the rubble, but 56th Street isn’t so far away. She can run once she’s cleared the debris.

She isn’t sure if she is the only one to notice the slight echo in Vision’s voice when he states that his section, too, is clear; she knows she isn’t the only one to notice the way Rogers stumbles, just slightly, over his name. But when she finds Wilson – hovering over the door of a health club, of _all_ things – he grins at her, bright and just a little wry, before launching himself at the robot trying to sneak up behind her. She tears apart the one aiming a rather shaky laser at him, and so it goes until the Widow announces she’s overridden the central command, they should all drop in three – two – one – 

*

Pietro isn’t gone. Because Pietro is always _with her_.

He is always at her side, huffing at how slowly she moves, complaining about how stupid Rogers’ plans are. Easing in front of her whenever Fury is present, as if she won’t notice, though she never needed him to (even less so, now).

He sits with her on the nights when she can’t stop her hands from shaking, cross-legged on her bed in front of her, eyes wide like it pains him not to reach out. (They tried, once. Wanda spent the next hour throwing up, trying to erase the image of his hand passing through hers.) He lectures the canteen staff on how she likes her tea and snarls when they don’t get it right. Sits with her through briefings and helps her with the after-mission paperwork (though “help” is probably too generous). Watches ridiculous American TV with her on Saturday nights and complains that he can’t have any of the popcorn.

And deep down, Wanda knows it’s logical. Understandable, even. She knows how her powers work, how grief works. Knows that she has never been alone in her life – twelve minutes older than her, after all; he has never _not_ been there – and that the combination would not surprise even the most underqualified of therapists. She knows, logically, that the team would not judge her.

But she also knows that they would want her to seek _help_. (Such a stupid word, such a _small_ word; how could anyone _help_ when her world has come crashing down around her?) They would _recommend_ and _strongly advise_ , because Wanda knows, after the SHIELD paperwork and the occasional, careful glances. She knows what help would mean – it would mean making it stop, making him _go away_ , and Wanda’s chest goes tight at the very thought.

So Pietro stays, and Wanda is careful never to look at him too long when there are others in the room.

*

“That looks vile.”

Wanda looks up, and Maria Hill is making a face at the mushy chili the canteen has been featuring as their “dish of the day” for two days. “You know the Avengers quarters all come with working kitchens, right?” Hill continues. It isn’t unkind – she sounds more puzzled as to why anyone would put themselves through such a thing.

Wanda pushes her fork through the chili and shrugs. It is vile, bland too, but all she says is, “I am not the most adept with cooking.” Neither of them ever had been, but Pietro’s efforts had been edible, at least.

Hill smiles at that, a quick curl at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t think any of us are. Except for maybe Wilson.” She pauses, tilts her head. “Apparently he makes a mean pancake.” Then she sits, directly across from Wanda, and Pietro pushes back from the table, hissing, “What are you _doing_?”

“What are you doing?” Wanda repeats. “You don’t trust me.”

A nod, and Hill shifts to fold her hands on top of the table, elbows out and shoulders straight. “I don’t,” she agrees. “But I don’t have to trust you to like you.” Pietro scoffs, harsh in the back of his throat; Wanda is careful not to do more than raise an eyebrow as Hill goes on. “You’re a ticking timebomb. You’re a ball of repressed anger and grief and fuck knows how strong you really are, but I’ll bet you could level this entire facility with a single thought.”

She says it so matter of factly, holding Wanda’s gaze the entire time, that Wanda can’t find the energy to be insulted. The metal of her fork digs into her fingers, and Pietro looms over her shoulder, all but growling at Hill.

“So yeah,” Hill says. “I want to monitor that.” There’s that brief quirk of lips again. “But you could’ve dropped us, in Sokovia, and you didn’t. You held it together. You fight for a cause – sure, it’s not always the right cause, or the right methods, but I can respect that.” She clears her throat, shifts, and Wanda is struck by the sudden realisation – this is _difficult_ for her. “I do. Respect that,” Hill clarifies.

“That is…” It’s Wanda’s turn to pause, but how can she respond to that? With Pietro bristling at her side and Hill waiting, still wearing that carefully unimpressed mask that seems to be her default, still watching Wanda. “Very generous,” Wanda settles on.

“I’m trying this whole honesty thing,” Hill says, mask never wavering. Wanda’s laugh feels brittle, and she lowers her head, breaking the connection to stab at her food. Her mother would have scolded her, she thinks.

“And how is that working for you?”

“Alcohol helps.” There’s the scrape of the chair legs, and when Wanda looks over, Hill is on her feet again. “You know where my office is, if you ever… I do a great margarita.” The she’s gone, and Wanda is left blinking while Pietro slides back into the seat beside her, glaring after Hill.

“That was strange,” she mutters, mostly under her breath and in their own tongue. Let anyone passing by think she is cursing the food.

“That was _weird_ ,” Pietro spits. Wanda bites down on the inside of her cheek and doesn’t reach out to kick him.

*  
SHIELD created an American bank account for her when she joined the team. There’s an obscene amount of money in it. Wanda doesn’t touch it; she knows who funds SHIELD now.

*

Wilson is gone two days after Hill’s invitation, disappeared in that way he and the Widow (and Rogers, to a lesser extent) sometimes do. “They’ve got a…thing,” Colonel Rhodes shrugs.

Pietro snorts. “A _thing_ ,” he repeats, pointed, even though Colonel Rhodes can’t hear him. Wanda’s fingers twitch, and she clenches both fists tight.

Vision merely nods, as if he understands entirely – he probably does; he probably knew every detail, once – and then Rogers is all but storming through the doors to the training room and snapping at them, ordering them into one of their least-practiced formations. His shoulders are tight, tense, and there is a strained set to his jaw that makes Wanda think he would not appreciate the salute Pietro gives his back.

Whatever mood Rogers is in, it is not satiated by training exercises. The shield barely misses Wanda’s jaw on one curve; she only just deflects in time, snapping her head back and managing to not lose her balance entirely. Now she remembers why they don’t use this formation.

“Easy, Cap,” the Widow calls, and when Wanda looks up, she’s leaning over the walkway railing with folded arms. There’s a smile curving her mouth. “You break ’em, Fury’s gonna be pissed.”

Rogers tips his head back. “Doing any work today?”

The Widow shrugs, languid. “I’m observing.”

“What happened to multitasking?”

There’s a hint of teeth in her smile as she jerks her chin. “Rhodey’s right boot is dragging.”

“Yeah, that’s because _someone_ got a little shield-happy,” Colonel Rhodes says, not unfriendly, and Rogers lets his head fall, but he’s smiling too.

“All right, guys, take five.” The practice drones whine to a pause at the order, and Colonel Rhodes drops, suffering a less than graceful landing. Wanda watches Rogers move to stand under the Widow, watches his shoulders ease and her smile grow. When he comes back to them, he is apologetic, almost painfully so, and Pietro’s scowl lifts, slowly.

Wanda returns to her rooms sore, aching in places she forgot even existed. But at least, she thinks, she is not the only one still haunted by her ghosts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warnings for this chapter (which have been added to the main tags): depressive episodes and disordered eating.
> 
> Wanda spends most of this chapter actually socialising with the team, in various ways. She’s very brave, but it takes it out of her, and while her reaction stems from her ptsd, it is very similar to a depressive episode. There are also some details of disordered eating, specifically a mentioned length of time without eating.
> 
> As always, if you feel like you can't read that or need more detail before you do, please take whatever care you need to for you and don't hesitate to contact me. :) Huge thanks to [stripystockings](http://stripystockings.tumblr.com/) for helping me figure out how best to warn for this stuff.

Wilson returns three days later, bruised and battered with dark circles under his eyes, but whole.

Of course, the only reason Wanda knows any of this is because he is currently standing in her doorway, interrupting her Saturday night and doing his very best to look convincing. Which, Wanda has to admit, is rather effective.

“C’mon,” he coaxes. “It’s a team-building exercise, you’ll love it.” Wanda lifts what she hopes is a very unimpressed eyebrow, and he raises his hands. Placating. Harmless. Concession. Or perhaps all three. Wanda isn’t even remotely fooled. “Okay, but Steve still hasn’t seen Star Wars, that’s worth a little bit of socialising, right? He still doesn’t know about Vader.”

Wanda rolls her eyes, looks back over her shoulder and beyond her half-open door. Pietro pulls one of his “What?” faces at her, complete with spread hands, and she sighs. “ _One_ movie,” she warns, turning back to Wilson. The smile he gives her is so bright, she almost feels bad for being so resistant. Almost.

 _“Awesome,”_ he says, as if he is genuinely _happy_ about her decision. He doesn’t stop grinning as Wanda pulls her door shut – Pietro slipping out at the last moment – but nor does he try to touch her. He doesn’t knock their shoulders, their elbows as they walk, as she has seen him do with the others. He keeps a respectable distance between them, but it does not – it doesn’t _feel_ wary. Wilson never seems wary of her, she realises. Careful, yes – he has training, after all, in dealing with those broken beyond repair; it’s probably why he fits in so well here – but he smiles just as easily at her as at any of the others. (Well. Perhaps not as easily as he does at Rogers.)

Warmth floods her for just a moment, tingling in her fingertips, and she curls them into loose fists.

“They had better not talk through it,” she mutters, almost under her breath and mostly to Pietro, but Wilson laughs.

“Oh no, Steve has _feelings_ about talking.” He catches her eye, and Wanda can feel her own smile, sharp and unbidden.

“Good,” she says.

The common room was Rogers’ insistence, to no one’s surprise. It’s as oversized as everything else in the facility, stuffed full of every typical kind of entertainment that could be thought of and, Wanda is sure, some more besides. She has only ever been there to fetch the others for training or debrief.

And yet Wilson doesn’t abandon her as she hesitates at the door, despite the fact that Rogers and the Widow are already sprawled over one of the couches. (The Widow is sprawled, Wanda amends, with her head resting on one couch arm and her feet in Rogers’ lap, where he sits at the other end. He doesn’t seem to mind, if the small, bright smile he gives the Widow is anything to go by.) He waits, infinitely patient, it seems, while Wanda considers her options, Pietro all but flickering with impatience.

There is space between Vision and Colonel Rhodes, sitting at either end of the same couch. The idea of being between their faint and ever-present tension makes Wanda’s head ache. Which leaves her with the gap beside Hill and Helen Cho, who are sitting almost _intimately_ close together. Wanda tilts her head, because that…is interesting.

Pietro makes a noise, low and unimpressed, as she settles herself beside them, but he still sits at her feet, leaning back against the arm of the couch and doing his own best to look entirely bored. Wanda wants to tell him to stop pretending, no one can see.

Instead, she turns to the mostly-full bowl of offered popcorn. Dr Cho’s smile is warm, and Wanda can’t help but think how much better she suits her own eye-colour. “I’m addicted to these films,” she says, as if Wanda has demanded an explanation for her presence. Perhaps she has been staring too long. “It is a problem, I know.” Her cheeks shine flushed pink; Wanda does not need the heightened sense of smell Strucker tried to develop in her cellmate to know she is embarrassed.

Hill moves then, sitting up to say, “It’s not a _problem_.” She leans in to murmur something clearly for Dr Cho’s ears only – whatever it is, the shine in Dr Cho’s cheeks darkens to deep red.

Instead of interrupting, of telling her that anyone who tried to outsmart Ultron in such close quarters, who almost _succeeded_ , more than deserves a place amongst the Avengers, Wanda takes a handful of sticky-sweet popcorn and ducks her head, turning away. Across the floor, Wilson lifts the Widow’s legs in a move Wanda is sure lesser men have been eviscerated for, sitting himself next to Rogers before dropping them back into place, across his own lap. The Widow only lifts her eyebrows at him, and Wilson laughs.

Dr Cho leans over as the lights dim and Rogers shushes all of them, even though they were already mostly silent. (Wanda thinks the Widow may throw popcorn at him, though it is too dark for her to be entirely sure.) “It’s good you’re here,” Dr Cho whispers, and Wanda’s throat grows tight.

*

“This is a bad idea,” Pietro sings, lounging in that particular way he does whenever he keeps watch. Normally, though, Wanda would be breaking into government offices, not knocking on the door.

“You can’t keep saying that,” she hisses. Pietro shrugs.

“Then stop having bad ideas.”

Wanda isn’t going to dignify him with a reply, but then Hill opens her door and the opportunity is gone anyway. Hill blinks, the briefest flash of surprise across her face as the mask slips, and she rocks back on her heel before everything settles into place again. “Maximoff.” Her voice is cool, and Wanda almost wonders if she has managed to push her from respect to irritation already.

Wanda lifts her chin. So what if she did not stay for the entire trilogy last night? She promised Wilson one film, and she kept her word. She will not be guilted into anything more. “Is it too early for margaritas?”

It is past six at night, and most SHIELD personnel have long since left the facility. Still, it is something of a surprise when a smile flickers over Hill’s face. “It’s _never_ too early for margaritas,” she says, stepping back and allowing Wanda entry. She doesn’t look at Pietro as she steps inside.

The office is…very much what she would have expected from Hill. The same white walls and stylishly plain furniture as the rest of the facility, including Wanda’s own room. The size of the desk is a surprise, as is the blood red couch pushed against one wall. The spider plant dying on one corner of that desk is not. There are no personal touches, no photo frames or decoration, nothing American TV insisted were staples of all offices. There is only the couch and what Wanda assumes is a very elaborate filing cabinet, but, she discovers as Hill crouches, is actually a minibar. (She appreciates that Hill has not entirely turned her back; it would be rude and, more importantly, unwise.)

“Courtesy of Tony Stark,” Hill says, and Wanda tries not to flinch, standing awkward and alone in the middle of her office. Pietro is with her less than a moment later.

“I’m sure Captain Rogers would approve,” is all she says though, and Hill huffs a laugh.

“I think Captain Rogers would understand better than anyone.” When she stands, it’s with two full glasses in hand. Wanda isn’t entirely sure how she did it, but neither is she willing to question it.

They perch at either end of the couch, and if Wanda feels stiff with – with _something_ , then at least Hill looks like she understands the notion. Hill downs half her almost-green concoction at once, and they are both silent. Wanda never drank much, before – they saw how easy it was, to drown everything in alcohol, to turn blind to all that was wrong under the haze of cheap wine – and even less, after. The tequila is thick and heavy on her tongue, and only the bite of the lime stops her stomach rolling when she does drink, small sips that do nothing but prolong her stay here. Pietro lounges in Hill’s desk chair, staring at the ceiling with an expression she has known since before she could speak. _Told you so._

“Did Wilson – ” Wanda has to clear her throat. “Did he find much, when he was away? What he was looking for?”

Hill’s smile is fainter than before, but it is there. “That’s classified.”

Wanda snorts, and the back of her throat burns. “Isn’t everything in this country?”

The smile grows into a smirk, razor sharp and close-lipped. Different from the Widow’s, and no less dangerous. Wanda almost wants to _push_. (Pietro’s head shoots up, and he _glares_.) “Pretty much,” Hill says, and Wanda’s throat hurts when she laughs.

She hands over her glass once her drink is finished, and Hill doesn’t offer her another. Which is good, because Wanda can feel exhaustion begin to pull at her, gnaw at her bones, and there is a tremor starting in her hands. Pietro stands very close as Hill walks her to the door, and hisses between his teeth as Hill reaches out, as if to lay a hand on Wanda’s arm, as if to stop her. Wanda turns at the last minute, letting Hill's hand slide through the air instead. She lifts an eyebrow and hides her hands in her long sleeves.

Hill gives her a pointed look, but only says, “We should do this again.” Wanda lifts her other brow, and it is Hill’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, okay, maybe give me some notice and I’ll see if Helen’s free, next time. She’s good at this.” She probably doesn’t realise her eyes soften, ever so slightly, when she speaks about Dr Cho. Someone should perhaps tell her that her mask is not so impenetrable.

Wanda merely nods. “I’ll make sure to do that.”

She makes her knees hold her up until she can lock her door behind her.

*

She stays in her bed for two days, and only gets up on the third because Pietro swears he has broken the TV. She doesn’t have the energy to argue with him.

The fourth day sees her resolutely ignoring both her headache and Pietro’s pointed looks. She isn’t hungry. She does not _need_ to eat right now. When she does, she will find food.

She wakes up gasping before the fifth day has truly begun, her stomach cramping. She has grown soft, she thinks as she drags herself out of bed. Pietro says nothing as he follows her out her rooms – Wanda thinks the lack of any smug response should worry her, but she can barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other, her head heavy and aching.

Somehow, he still manages to manoeuvre her into soup and crackers from the canteen – Wanda doesn’t know _how_ , since he cannot even physically touch her. Bastard.

She means to return to her rooms, honestly. But her feet appear to have other ideas, and Vision looks up when she enters the common room. Wanda blinks. She had thought – she wanted _silence_ , away from her rooms which seem to get smaller every day, away from _people_ , with their questions and demands dressed as requests. She wanted to breathe, and be silent, and pretend that the only reason she did not lean against Pietro’s side was that she was too tired to move.

Instead, there is Vision, sitting on the couch she shared with Hill and Dr Cho nearly a week ago. Something brightly animated and vaguely familiar plays on the TV behind him. “Don’t you sleep?” Wanda snaps. She doesn’t realise she’s clutching the pack of crackers she took to her chest until she hears them crack and crumble in her grip.

She thinks Vision gives her one of those long looks she is coming to associate with him, but with the lights off, she cannot be sure. “I don’t,” he says eventually, almost long enough that Wanda has to remind herself what the question was. “Given it is 3:07am, I suspect that neither do you at this moment.” He hesitates slightly before “suspect”, less than a breath. Wanda wonders if he knows.

Of course he does.

“Not right now,” she agrees, tight between her teeth. Every part of her aches, but she thinks – she thinks she may be more _annoyed_ than anything else.

“We should go back,” Pietro murmurs, just as Vision says, “You are welcome to join me.”

Pietro jerks, and Wanda digs her fingers into her crackers so as not to hold him back. “What?”

She thinks that may be a smile, from anyone else. “It is my understanding that insomnia requires distraction. I am reliably informed that these particular movies are rather adept at that.”

And suddenly, the animation is not so vague. “You’re watching Disney.”

“I am.”

“Let’s _go_ ,” Pietro insists, moving as if he would take her arm, before he catches himself. Wanda does not move. Pietro’s aversion is not unfounded, she knows. She remembers the pain of destruction in her head, the way her knees gave out and she could not see past the screams.

But that was Ultron. And her rooms are stale and suffocating, oppressive, and Vision – Vision has never demanded anything, from her or anyone else. Vision does not make her skin itch, her fingers clench and creak and reach for the steadying hand she can no longer grasp.

Her head does not quiet, but he does not make it _worse_ , and right now, she will take what she can get.

So she sits herself on the big, squishy arm of the couch Vision is occupying, and tears open her crackers. She does not even dare look up from her lap at Pietro’s, “The hell are you _doing_?”

“You don’t eat, right?” Wanda looks up, and she thinks, if she squints, she can make out Vision’s equivalent of wide-eyed through the dark.

“I do not,” he says. “But thank you for the offer.” Wanda shrugs, and Pietro makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. This time, Wanda does look up to glare at him, but only because Vision has already turned away to return his movie to the start before she can tell him there’s no need.


End file.
